


Kaleidoscope

by Alien boy (ByTheRiversDark)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Draco Malfoy Smokes, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy-centric, Endgame Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Gay Draco Malfoy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Smoking, Substance Abuse, Tattooed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByTheRiversDark/pseuds/Alien%20boy
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy chose to escape to Muggle London, where he hid comfortably away in his anonymity. For ten years, he existed hidden from magical forces, evading arrest and relying on drugs and casual hook-ups to keep himself sane, until a familiar face shows up, and Draco's entire world changes once again.Rated Mature for substance abuse and implied sex.Not abandoned I’m just lazy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Kaleidoscope

Bright greens and yellows swirled in his vision as Draco took another hit of his joint, chasing the long-forgotten feeling of floating emptiness. The vision in front of him was bright, stars and planets forming explosions of galaxies, blackholes and suns expanding across the vast expanse of black. The windows in his tiny, second floor flat have long been taped over with black tape to spare him the light-sensitive headaches in the mornings after, but his concern at the moment wasn’t for his future self, but the canvas before him. Emerald greens and mustard yellows painted the image in front of him, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t quite right. A little too much blue here, not enough purple there, but now the balance of the image was off, and the brightness of the whole thing was too much. He never could perfectly convey that weightlessness of magic, of the energy thrumming through his veins and out of his fingertips, the crackle of electricity in the air around him. It had been so long since he’d even held a wand, too long since he cast an effortless _Lumos_ or _Alohomora_ – could he even do it? Given the chance, could he still cast those simple charms that even children could manage?

Probably not, Draco thought bitterly, he wouldn’t even get the bloody chance. All he had now was Columbian greens and Mexican whites, half-filled canvases stolen from anywhere, and the suffocating feeling of absence, another world forgotten. 

Draco lifted the joint back to his mouth, inhaling the unique musk of the drug. He’d never been a fan of the taste and smell, hated the way it stunk up his apartment for days, and much rather preferred pills, but anything harder than marijuana and he’d be weighted to his bed like lead for days, and he couldn’t afford to miss another day of work. As his sight became filled with a kaleidoscope of colours again, Draco picked up his paintbrush and dipped in viridian green, smearing the colour across the painted blues and purples, preparing for another long night of disappointment.

Draco didn’t sleep that night.

* * *

When his alarm rung out, echoing throughout the too-empty flat, Draco was already awake, meticulously painting white acrylic over a painting he didn’t remember starting, let alone finishing (not that it mattered, Draco hated it anyway). Draco figured he should take a shower, or, at least, wash the speckles of paint remaining on his skin, but frankly he felt far too exhausted to do anything but change the shirt he’d been wearing for the past three days. His jeans were smattered with pain, as were his black boots, and for a moment he wished he had his wand, the familiar weight of the hawthorn wood in his hand to cast a cleaning spell, but he quickly dismissed the thought – what use was there, wishing for a past that could never become a present? It had been over ten years since he’d been exiled from the wizarding community, over a decade since he’d even held a magical object, since he’d even seen a wizard, felt the jolt of another’s magic in the atmosphere, and yet he still longed for it. He thought himself truly pathetic, unable to move on from events so far in the past he didn’t remember clearly at all – was it time that forced these memories out of his head, or the drugs? He knew that the substances he regularly pumped into his blood were a mocking parody of the virtue he once had, one he tried so desperately to replicate artificially, synthetic hormones fraying and tugging his head, but it wasn’t perfect, never could be, but that didn’t matter to him, not when he could finally get lost in the blankness. While he knew it would never be the same, it was close enough – and that’s all that mattered.

By the time Draco left his apartment, it was half past six in the morning, which meant he still had over an hour before he officially had to arrive to work at the art gallery. Since he was only low-level employee, despite the number of paintings on the wall that he painted, he had to be there an hour before opening time, and several hours after closing. Normally, he’d walk on the high street to get to work on time, but on the rare occasions he was early enough, he could take a longer, yet much more scenic route through the park. Draco especially enjoyed his early morning walks to work, when the grass was still dewy, birds were just starting to chirp from the treetops, and sunlight filtered through the trees’ crowns, casting his path in a warm, golden glow. Times like these, he didn’t wish for the foggy haze of drugs or the electrifying clarity of magic, two opposite ends of a spectrum, but was content to simply bask in the momentary peace of nature and forget his troubles, if only for a little while.

Draco stopped, appreciating the gorgeous morning, and allowed himself to just think. He often hoped that one day, he could live in this type of tranquillity, unbothered by life, the type that could relax anyone to the bone, completely sober and aware, praying that something would come along and change the sluggish, unchanging pace of life. Draco knew that wishing on the stars was fraudulent and useless, but he allowed himself to indulge now and then, to think of a life he could have had, where he had done things differently and was a different man: not a banished heir, bitter in his drug-induced hazes and magicless clarity. The birds chirped and swooped around him, singing their songs happily, and Draco wished he could be free like them, just for a few hours.

By the time Draco arrived at the gallery, most of his colleagues were already there. Betty, a lovely old woman who did tours for visitors and was duty manager whenever he was working, didn’t even spare a glance at his dishevelled form, already used to his lack of hygiene, as were the rest of the staff. She’d been there as long as he could remember, and stopped bothering him about appearances a few months after he was settled in, learning quickly that any attempts at cleaning him up would be futile, and the others rarely bothered to speak to him. The other janitor on duty, Rob, however, raised a single mocking eyebrow in his direction (not that he could say much, because Draco could distinctly remember three different times that Rob showed up in even worse condition than him, and Draco remembering anything distinctly was a miracle these days), taking a hit of a cigarette and blowing it out of an open window. Draco marched up to him and copied Rob, lighting a cigarette of his own and inhaling the sweet nicotine. They didn’t speak, they never did, only to ask for a lighter or another fag. Draco liked this about Rob; he rarely talked more than he needed; and Draco much preferred the quiet these days, a chance to be alone with his thoughts, and no obligation to use his voice.

Soon enough, both of them have put out their cigarettes and tossed the butts out of the window, ready for another day of work. Rob went directly to the West Wing, where he always worked, while Draco retreated to the janitor’s closet to grab the supplies he’d need to do his daily rounds. Overall, Draco hated his job, but it, along with the rare times his paintings sold, paid for both his bills and his drugs, and a bit extra, so he wasn’t one to moan and whine. Others had it much worse, so he didn’t feel he had the right to complain about having to manning the till and cleaning the toilets.

Once the nightguard arrived, Draco knew that his shift was over. He didn’t carry a watch – and couldn’t afford one anyway – so he relied entirely on other people’s schedules to manage his own at work, and the charity shop clock in his home. The guard gave him a nod, like he did every night, and Draco began to lock up every door and window with the key someone saw fit to give him. He thought it was too much responsibility for someone like him and wasn’t entirely comfortable accepting it, but it paid a few extra pennies an hour so he figured he might as well use it to his advantage. The fact that Draco had such little money never stopped him from taking what he needed – the gallery had a basement which was mainly used for storing the art not on display, but it also contained paints and brushes, and while low level employees such as himself were not permitted to go down there, it was incredibly easy to sneak in and take a few handfuls of things and stuff them in his pocket (or at least it was after he picked the lock with the hairpin he kept in his pocket). Almost as an afterthought, Draco travelled to the staff room and opened a few cabinets before taking a handful of cereal bars from a box labelled “BETTY – DO NOT EAT” and made his way out of the building.

The one thing Draco thought was most inconvenient about relocating entirely to the Muggle world was the lack of warmth charms. The cold always seeped through his layers, chilling him, while the frost bit at his cheeks and the wind tangled his hair, leaving the tips of his fingers as red as the tips of his cigarettes. Draco took the same route home, through the park for a second shot of the peace he felt that morning (although he did make sure to keep a hand on the blade he carried, just in case), but it wasn’t quite the same. The silence felt more ethereal, and he had the distinct feeling that he was intruding on nature, rather than appreciating it. The songs of the birds were replaced with the methodical hoots of owls (a sound which made Draco’s heart ache for Perseus, his eagle owl he had to leave at Malfoy Manor), and the rays of the sun were overtaken by the glowing moon. Both dawn and dusk were beautiful, but incomparably so – almost like weighing the grace of a unicorn to the elegance of a dragon. Draco loved the quietness of both times, but felt infinitely safer in the light.

When Draco got back to his apartment, the streets of London were enveloped in the dark wings of night-time, the stars like celestial bodies in the sky. Were he in a safer part of town, Draco would have stopped to appreciate the serenity of this hour, but knife crime had been steadily increasing in London, and Draco didn’t fancy himself another scar, so he rushed into the building as fast as he could, pretending he had anything meaningful to look forward to once inside, apart from a cramped apartment and half-finished paintings.

The entirety of Draco’s apartment was filled wall to wall with paintings, most abandoned halfway through, mostly in greens and yellows, but occasional blues and purples as well. The flat was cramped and often cold, as the heating broke a while ago, and there were questionable stains on both the carpet and the walls (most of which didn’t actually come from him and were already present when he arrived), but it was the best Draco could afford, and the landlord didn’t mind the mess and the oil paint stains, because Draco was currently his only tenant who had stayed for more than a year at most, so they had a sort of understanding. Draco deposited his stolen supplies on the only clean corner of the table, rifling through the sea of half-filled canvases. Eventually, he found one of unfinished green eyes with demonic black tendrils curving through them that he doesn’t remember painting. Maybe it was the result of the time he woke up in a puddle of his own vomit, marking the night the pills stopped keeping his dreams at bay. Not that it mattered, he didn’t sleep much anyway.

Setting the canvas against a wall and settling on the carpet, Draco began to inspect the day’s haul of supplies. After little consideration, he picked up the greens and blues, carelessly laying them over the fabric. He shaded, blended, sketched, and splattered the cool tones, starting with black in the middle and getting lighter towards the edges. When he was finished, the black silhouette of a castle, tall and concrete, could be made out before the backdrop of light, stars lighting up the sky as celestials. Draco’s lower back twinged from the awkward position he sat himself in, but he hardly cared (what was Vicodin for, after all?). He was falling into it, like he did in his dreams, and he tried desperately to embrace it, the feeling of welcomeness and homeliness, electric heat in his body, air lit up around him with divinity, but the nightmares soon took over, a phantom cold ache spreading through him, starting at his chest and ending tingling in his fingertips. The chill was closing in now, sharp like needles pricking underneath his skin, no matter how much he scratched, would refuse to leave his body. Hands were squeezing his lungs, twisting and moulding, cutting the air from his throat, leaving him without words to scream, breathless and afraid and-

A loud thud woke him up from his spiral. The canvas had hit the edge of the bed, and for a brief second he was worried it marred or cracked the paint, but the feeling quickly went away, because he knew it wasn’t right anyway. The colours didn’t align the way he wanted them to, and the silhouettes seemed too clean and clinical for what he was trying to convey.

A quick glance at the clock in the corner of the room showed that the time was four-thirty-nine a.m., so sleeping was entirely out of the question. Instead, Draco rifled through his closet, searching for the shoebox he kept his extra money. After a quick count, Draco smiled. He had enough.


End file.
